


An American Werewolf in Santa Barbara

by sebviathan



Category: Psych
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Horror, M/M, Psychtober, Werewolves, season 4-ish, with a good balance of lightheartedness in between
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:02:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5018485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebviathan/pseuds/sebviathan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The murders—the bodies you found, the two of them, all mangled up and both with hearts missing... I. I think I <i>did</i> that, Lassie. I know it probably sounds crazy, but—”</p><p>“You’re damn right it sounds crazy.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	An American Werewolf in Santa Barbara

**Author's Note:**

> Aside from the direct references to iconic werewolf films, I included a few subtle ones, too. See if you can catch them.

There's just something about standing in an empty parking lot at 1 A.M.

It's a sort of fear, even if he doesn't actively feel scared. Just... isolated. There aren't any cars on the road, and only a few others are parked—far enough away that they might be mirages, but really they're just the employees' cars. That and the light coming from inside the Ralphs is the only immediate evidence that life still exists on earth.

Shawn actually likes the quiet and the open space, particularly because there isn't anything to catch his eye. It's the closest thing his surroundings ever get to a blank page without being  _so_  featureless that it would drive him crazy, and it brings him a fleeting sense of freedom to entertain the idea that he might be the only one left.

Not that he would ever want that, of course. The idea never does stay for more than a few moments.

There's something else, though. An eeriness that comes not from the concrete desert around him, but... from what's beyond it. That is, the cluster of bushes and trees on the far end of the parking lot, untouched by the streetlamps or even the moonlight.

It's nowhere close to being an actual forest, but there's just enough square footage of nature to hold a sense of mystery. Mostly that Shawn can't  _see_  into it. Even in the daylight it's the perfect hiding spot, so in the dark... anything could be behind those bushes. Somehow he never thinks that there might just be nothing.

Knowing Santa Barbara, it's probably a serial killer—or worse, raccoons.

His existential confidence, at least, allows Shawn to glance in that direction without quickening his pace. He knows how to appreciate a good spooky atmosphere for what it is. And he actually almost misses it once he steps inside the store.

Movie snacks are what he's after—he and Gus underestimated exactly how much they'd need if they were going to power through his insomnia with a Back to the Future marathon, and he naturally volunteered to go get them. With Gus's money, of course.

Impatient to get back to the movie (not that he's lost track of where they were), Shawn hurries to bring his armful of microwaveable popcorn and licorice to the counter and pay the poor teenager who's working nightshift. The moment he steps out of the lit storefront and into the dark, though, any Back to the Future-related thoughts are pushed  _right_  out of his mind.

Probably hundreds of times he's crossed this parking lot in the late night and early morning hours, but not until now has he actually had any evidence that there was something (or someone?) lurking outside of it.

In the middle of the dark cluster of trees, there's the undeniable glow of red eyes.

Or at least they look like eyes. They're the right distance away from each other—but being who he is, Shawn thinks of all the possibilities. It might be actual lights, or reflectors. Someone playing a prank, maybe.

Except as he stares at them, standing perfectly still on the edge of the parking lot, they seem to stare back, somehow. Like the eyes on dolls or a painting.

A chill runs down his spine, but Shawn forces himself to be objective. It's probably just the eyeshine of some animal, like an owl.  _Or maybe Mothman, ha._

He clings onto that half-serious thought as he continues walking back to his (Gus's) car, pointedly keeping his gaze ahead. Though once he makes it to the Blueberry and tosses the bag of candy in the passenger seat, he can't resist. He  _has_  to look back.

...The red eyes are no longer there. Which, he thinks much, much later, should have been a sign to just get in the car and go—but he doesn't. Shawn simply frowns and slowly scans the area for where whatever it is might have gone.

And then he hears it—a huff of air, a slight growl, something sliding just slightly over the asphalt.

_Shit._

As though taking a moment to tell him  _rookie-fucking-mistake, pal_ , it doesn't strike until he turns around enough to see it.

The next thing he knows, he's half on the ground and half inside the car, with claws ripping into his clothes and a full set of canine fangs effectively separating the flesh of his shoulder from the bone. The pain is blinding, and time seems to slow down to allow him to feel every fraction of every moment—but it also allows him to act.

Anyone else in this situation, except perhaps a select few like Lassie and Jules, would be too busy screaming to think. And they'd be dragged off and/or ripped to shreds. But Shawn has a few precious moments to think and, luckily, a free arm.

Which he uses, after pulling his legs inside of the car, to grab the bottom edge of the window on the door and slam it shut as hard as he can.

The first keeps it from sinking its teeth deeper, and the second seems to make it release him. With the third it whimpers, and in the middle of Shawn attempting a fourth, it detaches itself from him completely, allowing him to just close the door entirely.

Within just a few seconds he has the engine running and his foot on the gas pedal, and no regard to the speed limit or any lanes as he drives the  _fuck_  out of there.

He makes the mistake of looking down at his bloody shoulder, which is  _just_  mangled enough (and fucking painful) to make him want to throw up. But it lets him know he needs a hospital—there's one down the road, luckily. He can get there in a couple minutes since there isn't any traffic.

Before getting onto the main road, Shawn catches one last glimpse of the thing. Just the back end, as it flees back into the bushes.

o0O0o

"It's so weird, Gus—I could have sworn it bit a chunk off of my arm. It really fucking felt like it, at least."

Instead, all he has to show for that attack is a torn and bloody shirt, a couple scratches, and a hospital bill just for a bit of gauze around his shoulder. It doesn't even sting anymore.

"Probably just fear and adrenaline making your mind exaggerate what happened," Gus says, already halfway through the licorice (" _You know I eat my anxiety away, Shawn_ "). "You said it looked like a wolf?"

"I dunno, I guess... Like you said, fear and adrenaline."

"Mm. More likely a rabid dog, or a coyote. I don't think there  _are_  any wolves in California."

 _No, it couldn't have been,_  Shawn wants to argue.  _It was too big._  But he leaves it alone. The more he gets into it, the more he can expect he won't even be able to enjoy the rest of the movie, let alone get to sleep afterwards.

One thing won't leave him alone, though. One detail that's been bugging him ever since he escaped getting mauled to death, and which he can only bring himself to say aloud when his best friend is already asleep and he's nearing it himself.

"It didn't have a  _tail_ , Gus."

 

* * *

 

**Exactly one month later (give or take about twelve hours)**

 

The victim's name is Jack Dunne—25, Caucasian, retail worker judging by his outfit. According to his driver's license he's also an organ donor, but it doesn't look like any of his are salvageable. Particularly not the heart.

"It's missing," Carlton mumbles under his breath, frowning at the mangled chest cavity. And then he adds, louder, "What kind of animal  _just_  eats the heart?"

"Unless it wasn't an animal attack," Juliet suggests, coming up beside him.

 _You sound like Spencer,_  he wants to say. They've got a witness account saying that something huge, like a wolf or a bear, was out there, and that they were able to shoot it in the leg. There's gunshot residue on the barrel of their gun, too.

But he has to admit, it's a suspicious story. Especially considering that they didn't report it, but someone else did after finding the body—that they were too afraid to go out and check if there even  _was_  a body in case the "monster" came back. And as thoroughly mutilated as Jack might be, none of his other organs seem to even have chunks taken out of them. Not much of the meat off his body is actually gone from the scene, either.

So what else, then? Some wannabe-Satanist with a fursuit?

"You probably don't want him here, but—"

"Hold off a few minutes before calling him," he says before Juliet can finish, making an extra effort to examine the body—hopefully to see any evidence of human interference. "He's probably already on his way anyway."

The low rumble of a motorcycle up onto the crime scene proves that guess to be right. And also confuses both of them.

"Where's Gus?" Juliet asks, looking behind him as though the so-called Blueberry might be tailing behind.

"He's busy at his real job," Spencer snaps, which surprises Carlton more than anything.

He wants to make some sarcastic comment about whatever bad mood they've caught him in, but he sticks with just relaying the corpse's personal information and maintaining a straight face.

"If you're gonna tell me it's a murder, don't waste my time with some big psychic announcement because we already suspect that," he tells him. "Just. Can you tell us anything that might lead to the identity of the killer?"

"...Gimme a minute."

Carlton just frowns at him for a moment, genuinely trying to figure out what his deal is. If his eyes weren't completely normal, he might assume Spencer was hungover.

 _Whatever, it's not my problem,_  he tells himself, finally walking off and just letting Spencer do his thing.

"You know, I was thinking," Juliet starts when he returns to her side. "About how the guy said it looked like a wolf or a bear. Well, there aren't any  _wild_  wolves in California, but what if it escaped from a zoo, or if it was someone's pet? Could be a domesticated wolf that turned wild. Or got rabies."

"Assuming Spencer can't prove it's a murder," he says.  _Which would be a first._

At that, they both turn to where the man in question is standing over the body, uncharacteristically silent and still. Usually he'd be pretending to have a vision about now, flailing about and making an idiot of himself and most importantly  _showing off_. But he instead looks as white as a sheet, arms stiff by his sides, and his chest heaving like—

"Shawn looks like he's about to throw up," Juliet notes, quiet and worried.

"He better not—he'll contaminate the body," he replies, just as quiet. Any worry he might feel isn't betrayed by his voice.

Carlton remembers the first time he ever saw a corpse that disgustingly mangled, and he can't honestly say he reacted any better than Shawn is now. Blood everywhere, limbs torn off, guts exposed if not actually strewn out of the body... it's a lot different than looking at a victim who simply drowned, or got poisoned or even shot.

And Shawn— _Spencer,_  he reminds himself—is still technically a civilian. He hasn't even been trained to deal with anything this gruesome.

"We should get him out of here." Juliet takes the words right out of his mouth. Not that he was going to say it quite like that.

"Spencer?" he calls out, starting back towards the body. It takes Shawn a moment to look at him. "...You got anything?"

Finally, he puts two fingers to his head (which gets Carlton's heart beating more evenly with relief), frowns intensely for a moment, and then drops them.

"Sorry, Lassie, the spirits ain't talking," Spencer tells him with a pathetic shrug. He seems genuinely sorry and somehow, that makes Carlton angry.

Juliet comes to his side again.

"Hey, Shawn... are you alright?"

"Peachy as your hair, Jules, I just—I can't help here."

With that, Spencer walks past them, avoiding their eyes and heading out of the crime scene. Before he gets past the police tape, though, an officer comes rushing up to tell them that they've got a second mutilated corpse, all the way across town. The announcement seems to make Spencer pause (in grief? in nausea?) before continuing on to his bike.

Carlton catches himself watching their consultant ride away a bit longer than he should.

o0O0o

The moment he hears the sound of a motorcycle slow to a stop outside his house, Carlton knows this is going to have something to do with earlier. Hopefully the actual case.

When he opens the door, however, he's met with probably the  _last_  thing he could have expected.

Rather than asking if he can come in, or even greeting him first, Shawn pushes past him, closes the door, and then takes a moment to turn back to face him. In that time Carlton notices that he doesn't seem any closer to his usual self than he did at the crime scene— _Jesus, did it really fuck him up that bad?_

"...What's this about, Spencer?"

Shawn's gone over it in his head at least twenty times on the way here, but he still second-guesses on how to give him the news.

"I think I did it, Lassie," he manages to say, sounding just as guilty as he feels.

Carlton narrows his eyes, more in concern than suspicion.

"You did what?"

"The murders—the bodies you found, the two of them, all mangled up and both with hearts missing... I. I think I  _did_  that, Lassie. I know it probably sounds crazy, but—"

"You're damn right it sounds crazy," he snaps. "If you're trying to play a prank on me, Spencer, I  _really_  don't have time for it."

"I'm  _not_ _—_ god, I swear, just. Let me start from the beginning."

Carlton is hit with the urge to simply open the door and shove him back out, but Spencer's eyes are pleading. They force him to listen.

"I hate to be the guy who starts stories like this, but it started a month ago.  _Exactly_  a month. I was out late, and some huge dog-wolf- _thing_  attacked me... and bit off a chunk of my arm. I would have mentioned it, particularly the amazing skill I displayed in escaping with my life, but I didn't think anyone would believe me. Because the wound just... it fucking disappeared after a few hours, like it never fucking happened! I have the hospital records and the bloody, torn shirt to prove it if you don't believe me."

"What does this have to do with—"

"Let me finish! Anyway, it—I didn't think much of it. But too many things were off about that night, and it started to bother me, and... wolves don't have red eyeshine, Lassie! Neither do dogs or coyotes. That thing had  _red_  eyes. I know it. And it was... it was too  _big_ , and it didn't have a tail, and... I started to put pieces together. And I started getting headaches and growing pains and cravings and I  _swear_ , I didn't want to believe it. I thought it might have just been a... a placebo thing, or something. But then last night... I felt like my whole  _body_  was on fire, Lassie. Like—the worst pain I've ever felt in my whole fucking life. I was aching all over for most of the day so I finally just took a shitload of pain meds and passed out. And then this morning... I woke up in the woods. Naked. And... blood, caked on my face and chest."

Halfway through Shawn's story, Carlton understood where it was going. It's a miracle he held out until the end with no more than folded arms and a look of skepticism.

"It sounds to me like you just took too many pain meds, and watch too many movies, Spencer."

Shawn doesn't know whether he should feel genuinely hurt that Lassiter isn't taking him seriously. So for a couple seconds, all he can do is stare him down.

"You know what, Lassie, I can't blame you for thinking it's crazy, but I  _know_  I did it. I was bitten by a werewolf on the last full moon, and  _this_  full moon I transformed and I killed those people. And I have more than a story—I have _proof_."

Without giving Carlton a chance to interject, Shawn props his foot up against the wall and pulls back his pant leg to show gauze around his calf. Which he unwraps to show a distinct, blackened hole.

"...You got shot?"

"I don't remember it, but it must have happened last night," Shawn says, re-wrapping the wound. "And it's almost completely healed."

He doesn't have to explain why that's proof; Carlton has seen Silver Bullet at least four times. And that witness said he shot the animal that attacked Dunne in the leg.

_God dammit._

Something weird happens in Carlton's chest.

"How are you sure it's a bullet wound?"

"Because I dug  _this_  out."

Shawn's hand was already in his pocket, and he punctuates that by holding the tiny bronze tip of a bullet right between Carlton's eyes. Almost as though in a daze, Carlton then puts his hand out for him to drop it into.

If this was a trick, it would be Spencer's cruelest and most elaborate one yet.

All he sees, though, is a man who's terrified. A man who trusts him enough to want his help, and who at the very least believes that he's done this terrible terrible thing, but...

"Why are you telling me this?" he finally asks, looking between Spencer and the bullet.

A sort of relief immediately flushes through him, and he sighs.

"So you can arrest me—put me in a jail cell and away from innocent people."

Carlton scoffs. "As much as I'd love to, Spencer, I can't convict you on a  _werewolf_ charge."

Just like that, Shawn's relief is gone and replaced with a vague sense of panic—but quickly, that dissolves into absolute resignation.

"Arrest me for pretending to be a psychic, then."

Carlton's heart freezes. And then so does the rest of his body.

No excitement, no relief, no sense of victory whatsoever.

 _That's_ not _how this was supposed to happen._

It's fear more than anything.

_He's serious._

"...No."

That's all he can bring himself to say in the moment, still trying to find the breath—but Shawn promptly knocks that out of him by grabbing his upper arms and slamming him against the wall with strength and force that he  _certainly_  didn't have before.

"Then arrest me for assaulting a police officer!" he growls in Carlton's face—and there, there it is. The  _animal_  in him.

He can't doubt it anymore, not while seeing it and  _feeling_  it so up close. There isn't any physical transformation—no yellow eyes or fangs, or claws or any of that, but. There's fear. And an utter lack of humanity in Shawn's gaze, an evident readiness to tear him apart.

But it's brief. Shawn only holds him there for a few seconds before suddenly looking more afraid than Carlton was in that moment, and backing away.

"Sorry, I—"

"Spencer," he breathes. Shawn takes it as the forgiveness it's meant to be.

"I need your help, Lass."

"Why mine, though? Why come to me instead of Guster? Or O'Hara? They're much more predisposed to believe you even when you're lying."

Shawn doesn't have the energy, at this point, to think of a good retort for that. So he sticks to just being honest.

"Because... you always know what to do when I don't. Because Gus would be terrified of me, and Jules would pity me—and that's  _best_ case scenario. But you have a grip on things, and I can't deal with this by myself. And... because I need someone to take me out if it gets to that point, which I know I can trust you to do."

Carlton tries not to think too much about the implications of that last part, but he ultimately nods and agrees. He couldn't say no even if he wanted to.

"Okay. I'll help you with this... thing. I'm not going to arrest you, though—I'm sure I can find an adequate way to restrain you by—" He really does  _not_ want to finish that with ' _the next_   _full moon_.' "...a month from now. Unless we can just cure it by then."

Now that, actually, cheers Shawn right the fuck up. For the first time all day his mouth stretches into a genuine grin, and he lightly hits Carlton on the chest.

"Look at you, Lassie, bein' all genre savvy..." It's crazy how drowning in self-hatred kept him from thinking of that himself. "I guess I'll research that—I'm not really that gung-ho on dying so soon," he adds with a nervous laugh.

 _I should hope not,_  he wants to say. He isn't exactly sure what keeps him from doing so.

"The ruling on the bodies is officially an animal attack," is what he says instead, sounding a bit awkward. "So you're in no trouble there. But, ah. Listen, Spencer—this is... a lot to take in. And it's late. So if you—"

"Yeah, I'll get out of what little's left of your hair," Shawn says, regarding him with a fond smile. "It's not like I'm in a hurry—we got a whole month."

He feels mostly like his usual self again as he makes to leave—less afraid, more hopeful. More willing to laugh, especially as he unlocks all six of the locks on Lassiter's door.

When he's finally got it open, he feels the need to say one last thing. So he looks back for just a moment.

"Thanks."

As the door clicks shut, Carlton realizes that the bullet is still in his hand. For several seconds he simply stares at it, allowing dread to creep up on him.

And then without skipping a single beat, he crosses the room to his kitchen, sets the bullet firmly on the counter, and pours himself a glass of scotch.

 

* * *

 

 

The extra adrenaline seems to be just as much of a blessing as it is a curse. Shawn really doesn't like being angry or even irritable—but holy  _shit_  has it given him an incentive to work out.

And not that he doesn't have other reasons for wanting to beef up, but it's no accident that Lassiter catches him doing push-ups in the Psych office when he shows up the next day. Or that he's wearing a tight tank top and his shortest workout shorts.

"Heya, Lassie!" he says as the man walks in, pushing himself back to a standing position with relative ease. "Impressive, right? I'm not even out of breath. And I jogged like, five miles this morning—before this I could barely even run for a  _block_ without feeling like I was dying."

Shawn beams, and Carlton raises an eyebrow.

"You're not re-thinking wanting to cure this, are you?"

"What—no, 'course not, I didn't ask you to come here just so I could show off. Well, not entirely. The cure's actually what I wanted to talk to you about—here."

He then gestures for Carlton to follow him to the laptop on his desk, at which he takes a moment to ask,

"Hey—what are three Vs with carets on either side supposed to mean?"

"Contrary to popular belief, Lassie, I don't speak gibberish. What about carrots?"

Carlton just rolls his eyes and holds out his phone, pulling up the text Shawn sent him earlier.

 

_need to talk to you about my furry little problem, come to the psych office on your lunch break. ^vvv^_

 

"Oh, you mean the tiny upside-down Vs?" Shawn says like it should be obvious. "It's a wolf, see—those are the ears, and the Vs are teeth."

"...You're a lot less upset about this than you were yesterday," Carlton tells him as he puts his phone away, unsure whether he should be amused or worried.

"Eh, I was a different person then. Hopeless and scared all that shit. But you're helping me now, so I figure—why not embrace the good parts of it? Anyway. I got a list of all the ways that could possibly cure me."

" _All?_ "

"Yeah, turns out there's like... a lot. Some of them I can obviously rule out, though—the Greeks thought it was a disease you could sweat out with a lot of exercise. And if that  _is_  true, then, well. I guess we'll see once I'm done getting buff. Oh, and some Danish myth says that you can cure a werewolf just by scolding it. So—"

"If that was true, you'd already be cured," Carlton says with a smirk.

"Took the words right outta my mouth, Lass. Anyway, uh—there's also hitting a werewolf three times on the head with a knife, which is dumb, but I guess it couldn't hurt to try. Converting the werewolf to Christianity, exorcising the werewolf, blah blah blah, also dumb, eating some plants which I looked up and it turns out they're poisonous—oh, ' _if someone who truly loves and trusts the werewolf calls out its name while it's transformed, it'll turn back into a human_ ,'" he reads in a mocking tone. "Even if it didn't sound stupid, I don't know how I'd go about setting that up.

"The main one that _actually_  makes sense is killing the werewolf who bit me. But I vote we try pretty much everything within reason just in case."

"How do you expect to find him?" Carlton asks, frowning between Spencer and the list.

"Well, I figured that's where you come in, being a Head Detective and all."

"And what makes you think I have any experience finding werewolves?"

"You said you'd help! And okay, just—look at the facts. Whoever it is, they're probably new to town. And they don't have an alibi for last month's full moon  _or_  the other night—assuming that the second body was them and not me. We can't assume it's a man, either."

"That doesn't exactly narrow it down."

"Well, it's a start. Maybe try for anyone who lives in a cabin close to town or something, too. Oh—and anyone who buys a suspicious amount of raw meat. I've been craving nothing  _but_."

Carlton isn't so sure how much he'll be able to do with that, but he promises that he'll try.

"Speaking of meat," Shawn adds, "there's some totally-not-raw sandwich meat suitable for human consumption in the mini-fridge. If you wanna grab lunch here instead of wasting money."

He hesitates at the way Spencer grins—but ultimately, it isn't a bad idea. He could use a free meal.

"I'm still paying the price of sitting in your company, but sure."

o0O0o

As deep as he's into this already—as honest as he was when he told Spencer that he would help him and be by his side on this, Carlton refuses to believe it quite yet.

Oh, he believes that  _Spencer_ believes it, but... werewolves? It's fucking absurd. It's _impossible_.

It has to be a fluke, somehow. Just a few months ago they dealt with a staged demon possession, so maybe the same thing is happening here. Someone could be drugging him and staging all of this—and maybe... maybe the adrenaline thing is just a coincidence. Or placebo effect.

Even moreso than how much Carlton doesn't want to forsake logic and accept the supernatural, he simply can't bring himself to believe that Spencer killed either of those people. Not as a wolf or a human or whatever else—he just  _wouldn't_. Not even if he thinks that he did.

Hardly a year ago, when all of the evidence was stacked against  _him_ , Spencer didn't waver from his side for a second. Spencer believed in him. So Carlton owes him that much.

He needs to know for sure, though.

And he still has that bullet.

The witness is compliant, doesn't protest whatsoever at Carlton wanting to run ballistics on his gun. ("If it helps you catch that monster, fuck, you can keep it.")

Juliet is hard to get past, harder to lie to. He never does that and he'd feel bad if the truth wasn't so unbelievable, or if it was only about himself. And he really doesn't know why he's so afraid that she'll suspect Spencer is involved.

Shepherd, the on-duty ballistics guy, is easy to bribe. He promises to keep it on the DL and there's no reason to believe he'll go back on his word.

Carlton, meanwhile, has trouble keeping it off his mind for the next hour, even as he distracts himself with busywork. He doesn't know which answer he's expecting, really. Just the one he wants. Maybe he's delusional to want it this bad.

Shepherd couldn't possibly know what the results mean to him, but that doesn't make his little half-smirk any less infuriating.

"It's a match. No doubt that bullet was fired from that gun."

Carlton doesn't thank him, but simply nods and returns to his desk.

o0O0o

Spencer texts or calls him at least once a day to ask for updates, and occasionally just to ask if he can come over.

"I bought all seven  _Howling_  movies on DVD," he clarifies.

"You know, when I said I'd help you with this, I didn't think that meant having sleepovers and watching movies."

"It's research! And I never said it would be a sleepover, but I'm game if you are. Want me to bring popcorn?"

Carlton sighs, highly skeptical of the idea that pure fiction will help them, but reluctantly agrees. He's been needing to talk to him, anyway. He's been thinking—

Shawn definitely  _is_  the beast that guy saw—but who's to say he really saw a  _beast_? Who can say for sure that he transformed? Hell, the guy could easily have hallucinated, either from drugs or fear. And Shawn himself still doesn't remember.

Silver doesn't even affect him, as they've found out. Not any more than it does a normal human. So that prompted Carlton to do some extensive research on his own.

"Hey, uh, listen. I have a theory," he only slightly hesitates to say as Shawn comes strutting through his door, a box of movies under his arm.

And Shawn quickly sits down on the back of his couch, eyes lighting up. "You got an idea of who the other werewolf is?"

"Not exactly. Actually, I was looking into historical accounts of lycanthropy—real ones, from military records, and there's a lot of basis to say that what's happening is more of a mental transformation than a physical one—"

"You think I'm crazy?" Shawn's face quickly falls into a scowl, and in that moment the idea of walking right back out of there seems fairly appealing.

Carlton's shoulders drop in an attempt to seem less imposing.

"I think we should consider the possibility that this is a disease rather than a curse, is all I'm saying. Just—hear me out, Spencer, it makes a lot of sense. A lot of historians and medical experts relate it to porphyria, hypertrichosis, lunacy, sundowning—the thing that bit you might have transferred some bacteria to you! You might have just... thought you were an animal, but didn't  _literally_  turn into one. And if that's the case, then this is a condition that can be helped with real medicine and real doctors, and we can—"

"Listen, Lassie," Shawn says with a mirthless smile, standing back up and taking a step forward. "I know you're trying to help like I asked you to, but if you're gonna do that, you need to  _listen_  to me. And I'm telling you that I know what I am—the proof is all  _here_! I have supernaturally enhanced senses, I'm  _healing_  supernaturally fast—I have supernatural fucking strength, Lassie. Do I need to slam you into a wall again to make you believe it?"

Part of him wants to say " _okay, you've made your point_ " and move on with this, but the rest of him is afraid that if he opens his mouth nothing but a squeak will come out. Not just from fear, either.

Shawn realizes it, too. So after a moment the staring between them goes from intense to awkward, and he decides that he's clearly gotten through to him.

And then he coughs, and steps back.

"So, uh—I didn't know which kind you liked, so I got regular salted and buttered popcorn, caramel, and cheddar."

Carlton finally exhales, grateful for the shift in conversation.

"Anything's fine. I'll... put on the first movie."

While he does that, Shawn heads to the kitchen and makes a mental addition to his list of Good Things about being a werewolf:  _Not only can I intimidate Lassie into submission, but he_ likes _it._

 

* * *

 

 

He has no choice in the matter—not even the ability to make a choice. It's as though he's just barely conscious while someone else controls him.

He's on  _fire_. And his muscles are convulsing, forcing him to fling his apartment door open, nearly breaking it off its hinges, and start down the road.

It should be impossible for a man to run this fast, he thinks, in the very back of his mind. But with every leap that he makes, the bare soles of his feet grabbing the pavement, he feels less and less like a man. He can hear dogs barking and he knows they're directed at him.

The moment his toes find dirt, so do his fingertips. His back arches without his permission, and even without any sense of a choice he fights against it. He screams to fight the pain of his bones breaking and growing back together, bending and shifting and pushing ever outward. Before his nails can even turn to claws he's ripping at his clothes—they're too tight, they're too hot, they're in the way of the fur growing on every inch of his skin and it's too much.

His face is the worst of it.

He can feel his skull stretching, his teeth being pushed out and replaced, his eyes... becoming something new entirely. For several seconds, throughout the agony, he's blind, and then—

And then the world is red.

And every heartbeat is as loud as his own.

And he wants nothing more than to make them stop, to swallow them down.

o0O0o

It's been relatively easy, for the past week, to ignore it. To joke around with Gus and not give away a single hint of underlying guilt, and to simply keep his mind off what he can't control even when he's alone.

But now he remembers it.

That dream wasn't just a dream—it was a memory, coming to him late because of the medication that pushed it down. And it was stark and vivid and it won't go away.

Every scream he heard and caused. The smell of fear and sweat, the smell of  _blood_ , both before and after he broke skin. The taste of it, the feeling of marred flesh under his claws, in his teeth... the sound of bones crunching underneath him. The feeling of a human heart sliding down his throat.

Shawn tries to focus only on what followed: the sound of a gunshot, the pain of the bullet piercing his skin. Fleeing until the moonlight was obscured by trees, until the wolf in him was gone.

He  _really_  tries, but no dice. It's all in his head, all at the front as though taunting him, telling him he'll never be able to forget.

There's a way that he's sure he can, though—at least for a little bit. Or at least he can forget how he feels about it.

Now it's only a matter of finding a bar open all night.

o0O0o

Lassiter shows up sometime around his tenth drink or so. Which is funny, because he can't remember calling him, and this doesn't seem like the kind of bar he'd drink at. What a funny, funny coincidence.

"Lassie, what—what are you doin' here, man? Buddy? Buddy-man?"

He thinks that's fucking hilarious, but Lassiter doesn't even crack a smile. Instead he simply frowns and hands some money to the bartender, who gives him his phone. Woah, when did the bartender take his phone?

"I'm taking you home, Spencer," he says roughly, grabbing him by the back of his shoulders and pulling him off the stool.

"I love it when you manhandle me, Lass," Shawn giggles. That doesn't earn any of the responses he was hoping for, either.

"Just c'mon."

"You sound tired."

"That's because I was asleep before I got a call from Bruno over there, telling me  _you_  were barely sober enough to stand and wouldn't stop ordering more drinks. Do you even fucking know what time it is?"

"Um." Shawn blinks, and then frowns. And then he reaches for Carlton's wrist to try to get a look at his watch, at which Carlton sighs and jerks away.

"It's almost three in the morning. Just—get in the car, and don't worry about your bike. It'll be right there for you tomorrow."

Slightly disappointed when Lassiter lets go of him, and too uninhibited to hide it, Shawn does as he says. Once he's buckled in, though, a smirk slides back onto his face.

"Tech-nick-all-y, Lassie, it's already tomorrow. So it's today."

Carlton just frowns at him, now more confused than annoyed.

"...How are you too drunk to walk on your own, but not drunk enough to say shit like that?"

"Fuck, I dunno, Lassie—werewolf metabolism is  _weird_. Do you know how much it took me to even get tipsy? I had absinthe for the first time tonight... worked better than anything else, but a whole bottle in my system still didn't get me drunk enough. 'S worse than being a lightweight."

With that, Shawn leans back against the seat and closes his eyes to keep his head from swimming too much, hoping he won't get dizzy enough to vomit once the car starts.

But the car doesn't start, because Carlton needs to know before he starts driving him home:

"The hell were you drinking so much for, anyway?"

And then Shawn's head stops swimming enough for him to remember. It doesn't come to the front of his mind right away—there's no flashing images or re-lived pain, but he's suddenly too aware of it for comfort.

"I, um." He swallows down the urge to throw up. "I had a nightmare. I... remembered. Everything."

Carlton feels a rush of regret for ever asking and it makes his whole body stiffen. Almost so much so that he can't move his mouth to apologize.

"Sorry. I... listen—"

"No, Lassie, you don't understand," he presses, looking at him this time. Not angry so much as pleading. "I remember  _everything_. I—I remember exactly what it was like to be a wolf, and I remember... catching his  _scent_. I didn't just kill Jack Dunne, I hunted him down. I chased him and I ripped his heart out before he was even dead and I ate it, and... and.  _I tore him apart, Lassie_."

The guilt rips through him, rips any remaining dignity away—and the next thing either of them know, Shawn is sobbing in the passenger seat.

 _Kill me, Lassie, I can't take it,_  he wants to say, and he would mean it.  _I deserve it._

But his throat is too closed up to let out anything other than choked sobs, and his teeth are gritted so hard they'll be ground into dust soon. The humiliation from crying in front of someone else—in front of  _Lassiter_ , of all people, only makes it worse.

Soon, though, he feels a hand settle in between his neck and shoulder, gripping him tight. And it almost seems to be in the distance that he hears, in the next moment,

"It wasn't you."

At that he finally forces himself to turn and look at the other man through his tears, and makes a real effort to speak.

"W-what are you t-talking about, I—"

"It was the thing _controlling_  you, Shawn," Carlton tells him. He needs to make him understand. "It's the curse, or the disease, or whatever it is—it's the wolf, and it's separate from you. And we're going to get it out of you. I promised you that."

The tears don't stop right away, but he does feel significantly less like he wants to die. And after a few moments of staring at him, seeing the look in his eyes and knowing that Lassiter really means it, he nods.

Carlton lets himself breathe again, and softens his grip on Shawn, allowing his fingers to slide off his neck as he lets go.

"...You ready to go home, then?"

Shawn wipes his face as thoroughly as he can before answering:

"Um, actually... I really don't want to be alone tonight, Lassie."

Carlton takes another look at him and decides, with minimal deliberation,  _why not_.

"You can stay at my place," he sighs. "You're sleeping on the couch, though."

Exhausted both mentally and physically as he is, Shawn manages to quirk a slight smile.

"Fine by me."

o0O0o

Shawn doesn't think he's ever been so grateful in his entire life—or so comforted by the sight of someone's couch.

He could probably just fall asleep on it as is, but then Lassie goes and gets a pillow and blanket for him. How  _nice_.

"I know you have, um. A higher body temperature now, but I figured I'd bring a thin blanket just in case."

Carlton feels awkward, standing there for more than a moment after Shawn is already getting comfortably situated on the couch, so he immediately turns to leave, but—

"Lassie!"

"Hm?"

He turns back, and Shawn waves for him to bend down. He's clearly still relatively drunk, so Carlton humors him.

"What, Spencer?"

He wants to thank him, but a simple "thank you" doesn't seem like nearly enough. So he hesitates, but only for a second before sitting up.

And with really no inhibition at all, Shawn puts a hand on Carlton's shoulder, and pulls himself forward just enough to kiss him on the cheek. Then he simply falls back and smiles.

"Night, Lassie."

Carlton freezes in that moment, eyes widening and heart quite literally stopping—but he somehow still manages to get out a goodnight in response and stand back up. As he walks back to his own bedroom, he can't help but wonder whether or not that even really just happened. Perhaps his own tired mind simply made it up.

The only proof he has is how warm his cheek still is.

 

* * *

 

 

His insomnia seems to return at full force after that night.

The guilt, of course, is pretty much dormant—and he has Lassiter to thank for that, but it's not gone. No matter how much he repeats what Lassie told him, and how close he is to truly believing it, nothing can erase the memory itself. It plays right in front of his eyes like it's happening all over again, and always at the  _least_  convenient time.

Gus starts to notice, too, which Shawn can't say is a bad thing. If his best friend  _didn't_  think there was anything wrong with him at this point, then he'd be worried.

"That's the third time today that you've zoned out on me—you okay, Shawn?"

 _No,_  he thinks very loudly.  _But I can't tell you about it or else you'll probably want to get on the first bus out of Santa Barbara and to Away From Me._

"Yeah man, I'm just. You know. Not sleeping."

It's easy enough to use that as a catch-all excuse, and it's not really a lie. Just not the full truth, either.

Any time he has been able to sleep, he's made a habit of doing so anywhere  _but_  his own bed. Which he just figures would complicate things too much if he brought it up.

"...How  _much_  are you not sleeping?" his friend asks, leaning closer as though to examine him.

"Same as usual," he lies, which turns out to be a bad idea.

"Well, you don't  _usually_  get like this." Gus immediately heads over to his fridge, takes a brief look inside, and then looks up with a deep frown. "What's your sugar intake?"

"Jeez, Gus—what are you, my mom? You know you're not an actual doctor, right."

"You didn't answer my question, Shawn."

"Fuck, I dunno... less than before, obviously. I  _told_  you that I started working out."

That, and he's damn near lost his taste for any non-natural sugar. Energy drinks taste disgusting now, and chocolate outright makes him sick just like he's any other dog. It's a fucking tragedy and quite possibly the second worst thing about being a werewolf.

"I'm still baffled by that, honestly," Gus tells him. "But a sudden change in diet can have drastic effects on the body regardless of whether or not it's necessarily healthy, so that's probably why it's getting this bad."

Just then, it happens again. Shawn drifts away from his friend's voice and back into the dark... and he can suddenly remember exactly what a beating heart looks like in the moonlight.

Gus snaps him out of it, and looks at him with such intense concern that Shawn briefly considers telling him everything.

"C'mon, man, I'm taking you to lunch."

It's an order, Shawn can tell, not an offer.

He gives a crooked smile in thanks as Gus pulls him off the couch by the hand, and follows him without complaint out of the Psych office and into the Blueberry.

Honestly, as much as his stomach is  _not_  going to be thanking him later, greasy fast food feels like the best decision he hasn't made all week.

(Even when Gus quite literally  _doesn't_  know, he knows.)

o0O0o

"What case is that list of addresses for?"

Before he can even register what she said, Juliet reaches for it to evidently get a closer look—but Carlton panics and practically slams the folder shut as he pulls it out of her line of sight.

"That's—not a case," he says quickly, hoping he doesn't sound or look too suspicious. Juliet's eyes are boring through him, though, and his mind reels in an effort to come up with a reasonable lie. "...It's a list of people who fit criteria that... Spencer had a vision about. No specific crime, but just that they should, uh... be put on a watch list."

The best lies are based in truth, after all.

"You're following one of Shawn's visions?" she asks, looking both skeptical and amused.

Carlton frowns. "He clearly felt it important enough to come to me directly about it, so yes, I'm taking it seriously. If that's what you're asking."

"Hm. Well, that's a pretty long list to go from."

"I'm narrowing it down," he grumbles.

"If it's serious enough that you're taking advice from Shawn, though, shouldn't the Chief or I be involved?"

For just a moment his heart drops in panic, but then he reminds himself—if he doesn't act like he believes he's doing anything wrong, no one will have any reason to suspect so.

"It's not really a present issue—just a thing I'm doing on the side just in case. When and  _if_ Spencer comes up with any details about what the supposed crime actually is,  _then_  I'll bring it to the Chief."

Finally, his partner seems to agree (albeit reluctantly) and leaves him alone.

_That was too close, dammit._

He probably shouldn't have even brought it to the station in the first place, but he's felt a strong, personal need to double his efforts on finding the other werewolf. If not to make it more likely that they'll find him (or her, he reminds himself), then to at least make himself feel better.

He doesn't want to see Shawn crying ever again, not in his car or anywhere else. Carlton's always seen him as emotionally indestructible, somehow—always joking and grinning, rarely ever humbled but displaying (as much as he hates to admit it) a very cop-like balance between empathy and composure when it comes to detective work.

To see him break down like that, really, was far more insight than he deserves or even wants.

Frankly, the search seems hopeless. There are nearly ninety-thousand people in this city (assuming they're even  _in_  the city) and all the legends and movies be damned, there's hardly any sure-fire way to tell whether someone's a werewolf if they're not transformed. Silver does jack shit, and wolfsbane is poisonous to literally  _everyone_.

Meaning what they need is damning evidence, such as chains in someone's basement big enough to restrain a wolf, a fridge full of raw meat, or possibly a sign on someone's front door that says ' _A werewolf lives here, enter at your own risk._ '

So until they get some impossible stroke of luck, Carlton can't imagine that his efforts will lead them anywhere. Not within the month, at least.

Around the time that the new moon hits, he decides that he ought to go buy chains of his own.

o0O0o

Lassiter hasn't said anything to him directly, but it's obvious enough. They've both come to an unspoken agreement that if a cure happens, it likely won't be before the next full moon.

At least it gives him time to mentally prepare.

But he also spends a great deal of time wondering just  _how_  long it will be. Realistically, it could take several months to narrow it down and find the other werewolf.

Is that how long he'll be waiting? Will he have to spend the next half of a year or longer keeping this secret, forcing Lassiter to remain in this new double life with him? How long until it interferes with a case? How long until the other man gets tired of risking his job, and takes back his promise?

No, Shawn knows he wouldn't—Lassie's not like that. But he wouldn't blame him.

He'd like to say they simply need a new angle, but there aren't any left. The "research" through watching werewolf movies hasn't given them any new insights, and all attempts to seek help through the internet have provided nothing but generic lore and teenagers telling him that werewolves aren't real.

So he goes out. He distracts himself from the fact that there's nothing he can do by running everywhere he goes, by keeping his heart pumping and making use of all the fucking adrenaline in his system.

It gets worse, the closer the days grow to the full moon.

And it feels like he's jogged down every single street in Santa Barbara before Shawn finally passes the  _one_  place that can probably help him.

It's an antique shop, and he never would have thought much of it before now—he never would have noticed the symbols etched into the bricks by the windows. They're some kind of calling card, an assurance to anyone who recognizes it that the owners deal with the supernatural, just like them.

Never has he been so thankful for obscure forums with terrible clipart layouts and anime icons.

Shawn is careful as he walks in, irrationally afraid that somehow his mere presence will set off some alarm—and, more rationally, that he might touch some cursed object on accident.

When it's clear that he's welcome here, though, his usual confidence comes much more easily. There doesn't seem to be any other customers, either, so he figures there's no danger in being straightforward when the middle-aged woman at the counter looks up at him.

"Hi, uh. I need to know stuff about werewolves."

She looks started at that, mouth gaping open slightly, and he can't help but think he made a mistake—

"Oh, um. People are usually more subtle about it, you know," she laughs. "...Hunting them, or—?"

"Curing them."

Her expression quickly turns into a sympathetic one, and Shawn is sure in that moment that she knows what he is. It's odd, sharing that only with Lassie and a complete stranger.

"I've tried most of the ways that the legends talk about—even the ones that are obviously fake," he tells her, "And I've been working towards trying to... find the one who turned me, but..."

"I would tell you where to find him if I knew." She sounds genuinely sorry, which should be a comfort, but all it really tells him is that he came in here for nothing. "I haven't heard of there being any werewolves in Santa Barbara in  _years_ _—_ we mostly get vampires, and the occasional demon. Anyway. I'd like to help you, I really would, but as far as  _curing_  a werewolf goes... I've only ever heard rumours of it happening. ' _I knew a guy who had a friend who had a cousin,_ ' y'know?"

"So... you don't know if it's possible."

"Sorry, kid."

Shawn very nearly gets angry enough to just leave right then (if only to save the woman from misdirected rage), but then something else comes to mind. Something that eases his disappointment into something more... passive.

"One more question," he says. "Is there any reason you can think of that a werewolf might turn someone on purpose?"

Now  _that_  seems to actually come as a surprise to her.

"...If it were possible, sure—they might be lonely. And they might just want someone who understands them. But I've never heard of a werewolf being able to control what they do while transformed."

The woman gives him an odd look as he frowns and nods, but seems to decide that she's better off not asking.

Shawn leaves with only a short  _thanks_  and, as though there was no interruption, resumes his morning run.

o0O0o

 

_can you come to the office on your lunch break, i need to talk to you._

 

He's not entirely sure why his first instinct is to make that text. Yeah, Lassiter has successfully talked him through some difficult shit in the past few weeks, but the guy didn't exactly sign up to be his emotional support.

Shawn doesn't have anyone else, though—and what can he say, he's fucking selfish.

Not even a minute after he hits send he already gets a text back:  _yeah, be there in an hour._  And dammit, it really shouldn't make him  _that_  happy. Lassiter's responding to an obligation; he has no idea that it's not a serious, immediate problem he wants to talk about.

He'd like to say it's just the werewolf hormones making him feel like a teenager, but honestly? Shawn's always like this when it comes to him.

When he shows up (right on the dot, too), it occurs to Shawn that this is the first time throughout this mess that Lassiter hasn't walked in on him exercising. And it clearly occurs to  _him_ , too, judging by the mildly concerned look on his face when he finds him merely sitting on the edge of his desk.

"What happened?"

Shawn almost wants to laugh. " _Morality_  happened, Lassie."

Carlton raises his eyebrow and comes to a stop a couple feet in front of him.

"...Mind elaborating?"

"I—" He decides last minute not to mention the antique shop—it has nothing to do with this, really. "I realized that we might be doing a bad thing, here. I mean, if you actually find the guy, and I kill them, aren't I just killing another innocent person? And this time it  _will_  be me, not the wolf. I don't—I'm sorry for making you waste your time, Lassie, I just didn't think until now—"

"What the fuck are you talking about, Spencer?" Carlton snaps, frowning at him the same way he did the first night Shawn came to him. "They're not innocent."

"They're no less innocent than I am, Lassie!" he presses. "Whoever turned me, they had no control over it. They were just following their instinct to kill and I happened to be there, and I happened to have the upper hand—and now they're going to die for it? If we're gonna kill 'em, we might as well just kill me too."

At that, Carlton feels a distinct urge to step forward and slap some sense into him—but he instead just does the former.

"No, we won't," he tells him firmly, "because you're not going to be a danger. The other guy is, though—no one's locking  _him_  up on the full moon. So by killing him, we're saving lives. We're fixing  _your_  life. And if it cures you, we're saving any lives that might be in your way. That morally righteous enough for you?"

Shawn just stares at him in a sort of slight awe.

It certainly isn't the first notion he's had, but if nothing else, it's proof that Lassiter isn't just in this for public safety. He's really, truly doing it for  _him_.

"And you don't have a problem with it?" he thinks to ask, unintentionally quieter. Maybe it's because of how close Carlton is standing.

"I already told you I'd do it," he says without missing a beat, voice just as quiet. "And I finish what I start, Spencer."

The space between them is sweltering—there's no good reason why either of them should want to be closer, but they do. Regardless of the heat it just seems so easy, just another few inches and Carlton's hands could rest comfortably on the desk, and Shawn wouldn't even have to move. He wouldn't even have to crane his neck.

In the very next moment, though, it becomes apparent that he's not the only one on his lunch break.

Any semblance of whatever they were just doing (or were about to do?) disappears the second Gus walks through the door: Carlton jumps back several feet in order to reestablish a professional distance, and in his head Shawn likens him to a spooked cat.

"What's Lassie doing here?"

Luckily, Gus doesn't seem to notice how fucking red either of them are. Or at least he doesn't wonder  _why_.

"I needed Spencer's help on a case," Carlton lies almost faster than he can think. "But he couldn't give me anything I didn't already know so you're not getting paid. Sorry, Guster."

He risks a quick glance at Shawn before he heads towards the door, and hey, he actually seems impressed.

"Call me if you need anything else, Lass!" he calls after him, grin evident in his voice.

Once the door slams shut, though, he has to seriously resist the urge to tell Gus that he has the fucking  _worst_  timing.

 

* * *

 

 

The big night is tomorrow, which should probably fill him with dread. Or at least make him feel like the situation is simply too serious, too grim.

But all things considered, it's also reason enough to do this while he can—that is, before it's too late. Not that he expects it to be, but tomorrow could very well be his last night on earth.

Shawn decides not to call him before showing up, either. He already knows that he'll be home.

"Spencer?" Carlton opens the door in the middle of his second knock, already assuming the worst—but then he sees him practically grinning. "...I'm guessing there's no urgent problem?"

"Problem, no—urgent, yes," Shawn tells him as he walks in, shutting the door behind him. Carlton just raises an eyebrow. "I made a  _very_  important observation."

"About?"

"I'm  _hot_. Of course even before I got turned I would rate myself at least an 8, but I'm literally beyond the scale now—it's got to be some pheromones thing. Probably 'cause I'm getting closer to being the wolf again, and it's some ancient drive to mate and spread my werewolf seed or... something."

That's a disgusting way to word it, but undeniably interesting. Carlton gives him a wary look.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because." Shawn's grin stretches further and, for a moment, there's a wild look in his eyes. "This whole werewolf pheromone thing has affected everybody. Every stranger I've come in contact with in the past week has either flirted with me or stared me up and down. And everyone I  _know_  has just acted weird—Jules, the Chief, Buzz... even Gus, and he's the straightest guy I know. Everyone's been pretty much affected beyond recognition around me— _everyone_... except you."

Carlton's heart skips a beat, and he somehow feels sure in that moment that Shawn can tell.

He steps closer until they're almost standing chest to chest, confidence growing as Carlton clearly makes no move to push him away.

"It makes sense," Shawn breathes, grabbing a fistful of his shirt to pull him down just slightly. "You put so much effort into hiding all your feelings anyway—save the other day at the office—so why would me suddenly becoming supernaturally attractive make any difference?"

Part of him wants to say that it's not true, that Shawn's got him all wrong. That surely, he would have stepped away even if Guster hadn't interrupted them.

But that would be a terrible, terrible lie. Carlton's yet to protest being in this position, after all.

And the heat's becoming unbearable.

So he's the first to move forward, by the slightest fraction of an inch—and Shawn takes that as permission to fist his shirt even harder and pull him closer indefinitely.

It's searing, and all-consuming, and it seems to set his entire body aflame, and—

—and he never imagined that any kiss between them would be almost entirely led by  _Shawn_ , but somehow he can't find it in himself to complain.

He backs Carlton up against the edge of the couch, hands moving to his hips and pinning him there—and Carlton knows if he resisted then Shawn would hold back, let up until they were even, but the moment he thinks about it he knows he  _really_  doesn't want him to.

"Ho- _oly shit_ ," he gasps as soon as Shawn's mouth is off of his—partially because of where else it's going, but mostly because he's actually lifting him up now, positioning his ass on the edge of the couch and bending him over it, using only one arm to keep him from falling.

Maybe this is going too fast, but Carlton is burning up and needs his clothes off as soon as fucking possible. He needs relief, and he needs  _skin_ _—_ and god, this is crazy because hardly ten minutes ago he was fine, but he wants Shawn so fucking bad. And Shawn wants  _him_.

As his fingers fly to his buttons, Shawn lets out a noise that sounds like a growl. A real one. And he might be ashamed of it if Carlton didn't immediately get harder against him.

"God, Lassie—just  _rip it off_."

So he does, and several buttons go flying. It wasn't that nice of a shirt anyway.

Shawn knows he can't do the same no matter how much he'd like to—and he can't even do it quickly without pulling Carlton all the way off the couch. So instead his hands just slide to his hips; his mouth to Carlton's ear.

"Where's your bedroom?"

"Why, you gonna carry me there?" he teases—and he really doesn't know why he ever doubted that Shawn could, because that's what he immediately does.

" _Fuck_ _—_ "

"I'm gonna do that, too."

He's been on his back before—hell, this certainly isn't the first time he's taken this position, either. But he's never been taken to bed by anyone stronger than him, or anyone who could carry him by his ass like he was weightless and then slam him into his mattress with such force, and  _god_ , he never even knew how much he'd like it.

The moment that Carlton gets a moment of mental clarity, though—that is, the moment Shawn lets up enough to focus on getting his pants off, a seed of doubt plants itself.

What's worse is that it's actually quite reasonable doubt.

"Wait."

Shawn doesn't hesitate to stop. And for a moment he can only assume that he's been going too fast and that Carlton simply needs a moment to breathe, which is partially true, but then—

"Why are you doing this?"

He frowns, and that takes a couple seconds to register as an actual question.

"...What?"

"I need to know this isn't just some animalistic, instinct-driven thing, Shawn," he says, propping himself up on his elbows to look at him. "So tell me why. And tell me you're not going to regret this when you survive tomorrow."

_Oh._

Carlton looks like he might push him off if he doesn't say something in the next five seconds, and for a moment Shawn is terrified that he will.

"Okay, so imminent death gave me the courage to do this now instead of later or never," he admits easily. "I consider it a good thing."

"That's not an answer. Why?"

" _Why_? Because—I'm doing this because I want to, Lassie. Because I like you and you like me, and this is what adults do when they like each other."

Carlton doesn't say anything then, but his eyes seem to ask " _why else_?"

And Shawn bends down, pushing him back onto the bed, happy to give him an answer.

o0O0o

Carlton wakes up to an empty bed, and his heart sinks.  _Looks like he did regret it after all._

As he scowls and steps out of bed, though, he notices—Shawn's jeans are still on the floor. But that's only more worrying, because he's nowhere else in the house.

And then he sees the window. Smashed open, like someone hurled their body right through it.

_Fuck._

o0O0o

After ten minutes or so of driving around, his phone starts ringing. He doesn't recognize the number, but there's a pretty good chance it's who he thinks it is.

"Lassie?"

"Oh—thank god. What the hell happened?"

"I don't know—I don't remember anything. I, um. I still have underwear on, though, so I guess I didn't fully transform?"

He lowers his voice with that last part, which gives Carlton the impression that he's not alone.

"Hold on, how are you calling me? Are you at a payphone?"

"Nah, I'm at Oak Park. I offered this guy a psychic reading in exchange for using his phone—but I gotta hurry up, since this is, y'know, a family-oriented place."

"Alright, good—I'm actually not far from there. Just. Try not to get arrested for public indecency before I pick you up."

To Shawn's relief when he finds him, Carlton brought his clothes for him to put on, along with his phone. As muscular as he's gotten lately, he still isn't at all comfortable being so exposed to strangers.

Funnily enough, the very first thing Shawn thinks to say to him when he gets in the car is:

"Holy shit, Lassie—your _neck_."

In the haste of getting dressed he'd had no time to look in the mirror, but now that he does— _sweet lady justice_.

"Oh my god, you're a  _leech_."

"Well, you didn't seem to mind it at the time."

"...I can't go to work like this. This is ridiculously unprofessional, I can't believe I let you do this—"

"Relax, man, that's what concealer's for. And shouldn't we be focusing on  _my_  problem?"

 _Our problem,_  Carlton thinks. But he's right.

"I still don't understand what happened," he tells him. "There wasn't even a full moon. Not only that, but somehow you managed to get up in the middle of the night and break right through my window without waking me up."

"Shit, uh... adrenaline, maybe? Or maybe the moon doesn't have to be completely full for something to happen—god dammit, am I one of  _those_  kinds of werewolves?"

_Either that, or fucking the living daylights out of me gets just enough adrenaline pumping to kickstart transformation._

"Okay—if you didn't transform fully, then what did you even  _do_?"

"Turned into something different, I guess? More man than wolf—like Teen Wolf, except less basketball and more memory loss and possible killing. Which, uh... I'm really not sure about."

Considering the lack of blood on his face when he woke up, there's good reason to be hopeful that he didn't, but he can't shake the feeling that  _something_  happened.

"But hey, uh—" He pushes it to the back of his mind when he sees the way Lassiter's looking at him. "We should go get some makeup or something to put on your neck."

o0O0o

Carlton is hardly willing to walk into any public place with so many obvious hickeys, let alone essentially make it obvious that he's embarrassed, so he's grateful when Shawn volunteers to go buy the concealer for him.

But then he's also sure that Shawn is just trying to distract himself from the idea that he might have hurt someone last night.

The few minutes in the car alone give him no choice but to start thinking—not just about what they're going to  _do_ , but about last night. And what the hell that  _means_ for them, and whether or not he'll even be able to get a straight answer from Shawn if he asks.

And then the passenger's door finally opens, startling Carlton out of his thoughts.

"I got the lightest complexion they had," he says with a wry smile, crawling back into the seat. "I hope it's pale enough."

About halfway through applying concealer (which isn't quite as effective as either of them expected, but it's something) and several bad vampire-werewolf jokes later, Carlton's phone rings again. And it's Juliet, so he picks up without hesitation.

"Lassiter."

"I don't know how your morning's been going, but we got two bodies."

His heart stops.

"Two?"

"One kid about twelve, one fortysomething, both probably animal attacks. Within a mile of each other, even. There's squad cars all the way up and down Mission Ridge—I'm on my way to Franceschi Park now."

"I'll meet you there."

Carlton doesn't know why he hesitates so long to look over at him. Really, he just doesn't know whether he'd rather say it's fear or shame.

When he finally does, Shawn looks like he's been punched in the gut. Feels like it, too.

"...Shawn—"

"A  _kid_ , Lassie."

"We don't know for sure—"

"So maybe I killed an old guy instead, that's a little bit better," he snaps, looking hysteric. Though that might just be the fact that he slept in dirt. "...I can't—I gotta go."

He reaches for the door handle, but Carlton holds him back.

"I can drop you off."

"I'm a big boy, I can walk myself home."

Shawn tries to jerk away then—and Carlton understands it, he has  _every_  reason to want to get away and be alone, but his grip only tightens.

"Let me  _out_ , Lassiter—"

"Spencer, look at me." Two can play the informality game. And it works. "...Don't do anything stupid, alright?"

Shawn knows what he means. He wants to be offended at the notion, but it's justified. So much so that he can't even promise directly.

"You should hurry up and get to that crime scene," he tells him.

And then Carlton lets him go.

 

* * *

 

 

With almost exactly a month in between this pair of mauled bodies and the last, the general ruling quickly jumps to a possible serial killer.

"It might be some weird ritual," Juliet suggests. "Considering both were done on or near the full moon.  _And_  it would be a much better explanation for why the hearts are missing than just some coincidence."

Carlton has no choice but to agree and play along—that is, if he doesn't want to give away any notion that he knows something they don't.

"If someone's faking animal attacks this well, then we're dealing with a real sicko," he mutters, frowning resignedly down at what's left of Grace Ramirez.

They're pretty sure that's who it is, at least. Her parents are behind the police tape, and they say she's been missing since this morning. The clothes she was supposedly wearing match the ones on the body, too.

 _Jesus._  It's been forever since he's seen a corpse this small. What was she doing outside at night, anyway? Was she sneaking out? Why did it have to be her?

He's usually far more emotionally distant, but in this instance he'll make an exception. If only because it's easier to wonder about this kid's life than to think about the fact that Shawn might have done this.

 _He's rubbing off on you_ , a voice in the back of his mind tells him. Carlton doesn't have the energy to disagree.

It's a relief when they move onto the second crime scene, but also confusing for everyone involved.

"The heart isn't missing on this one."

He can tell immediately—the chest cavity isn't even ripped open. In fact, the body as a whole is noticeably less mutilated than the others.

 _Now what the hell does_ that _mean?_

"...Maybe not a serial killer, then," Carlton decides to say, eyebrow cocked at his partner.

"Or maybe he messed up?" she offers. "Or he got interrupted—shot at, maybe, like one of the attacks from last month."

 _Shawn didn't have any wounds,_  he can't help but think.

But he refuses to let that thought process go any further. Not yet.

o0O0o

The older victim's name is Rufus Fisher, and his only known place of residence is a motel across town, which he appears to have been staying in for the past couple months. A drifter, most likely.

"His car was found, parked several miles away from where he was attacked," Juliet tells him later, at the station. "You think he was on a midnight jog?"

Carlton frowns for a moment, a story vaguely beginning to form in his mind.

"Something like that."

Without much warning (even to himself), Carlton's legs push him up and away from his desk, and then hurry directly down to the coroner's lab. He hears Juliet's clicking footsteps following behind.

"Strode!"

The new coroner barely looks startled as he walks in, his partner trailing confusedly along.

"Hey, detectives—I'm actually still in the middle of the first autopsy, but—"

"What about the other one? Is there anything you can already tell us about him?"

While Juliet gives him an odd look, the coroner doesn't seem bothered at all. He wonders if he should consider that a bad thing.

"Well, he has Type A-positive blood. He seems like a Pisces. And I can almost guarantee he was killed  _after_  the girl. But oddly enough no more than ten minutes could have separated them. And, you know—even most healthy animals wouldn't have the energy to make two brutal attacks one after the other like that."

"A human would have a harder time doing that," Juliet says. "You think it could be more than one person doing this, Carlton?"

"Not exactly, O'Hara. Strode—have you found any hairs on the girl's body? Any that weren't hers?"

"I did! But it'll be a few hours before any DNA results come out of it. Why?"

"I'm gonna need you to check Fisher's alongside it."

He doesn't even hesitate before pointing a latex-covered finger at him and heading towards the back room.

"Already on it."

For the first time all day, Carlton has a reason to feel on top of things. Juliet, meanwhile, is mostly just confused once they leave.

"What was that about?"

"A hunch," he tells her. And this time it's not a lie.

o0O0o

Part of him wishes that it wasn't so easy to just walk all the way home—it would be a far better distraction if it actually  _hurt_. If he could feel his muscles tire out and tense up and start to burn.

But no, his stupid endless adrenaline is still there. (He officially takes it off the list of Good Things about being a werewolf.)

Shawn's clothes are on the floor almost immediately after his apartment door shuts behind him. He doesn't even think about it—just knows he needs a shower, and makes no mental or physical stops on the way there. Turns the knob to where it's been more times in the past month than at all in ten years: the coldest setting.

He stays in there until his body is completely numb. Which takes hours, because of his natural body heat, but it's worth it—even the inevitable water bill.

Long before he intends to get out, though, there's a loud banging at his door. For several seconds he considers just staying in the shower anyway and refusing to deal with whatever's waiting for him, but then he's pretty sure hears the door actually open.

After twenty seconds of frantic drying (in the span of which some of his feeling already comes back) and wrapping a towel around his waist, he rushes out of his bathroom to find Lassiter only a few feet away, looking oddly relieved.

"What the hell, Lassie?"

"You weren't answering your phone."

"So you break into my apartment while I'm in the shower?"

"Uh, it was unlocked. And you were in there a long fucking time—forgive me for getting worried."

Honestly, you'd think Shawn  _wanted_  to scare him half to death. It actually takes Carlton a moment to remember the reason he was calling him in the first place.

" _Anyway_ , I have good news. You didn't kill anyone last night."

If not for the genuine, slight smile on his face, Shawn might have suspected him of just fucking with him. The urge to grab his chest in relief nearly makes him drop the towel.

"But— _how_?"

"Well, you technically might have, but he wasn't human," Carlton tells him. "The middle-aged guy was our werewolf. His hair was found on the kid's body, meaning that  _he_  killed her—and about ten minutes later, something killed him. The department is ruling him a serial killer, and his death an animal attack, but... I obviously know better."

Shawn feels like he stepped out of his numbingly cold shower and directly into a fucking sauna—honestly, all he wants to do is step forward and kiss him. And he can tell it's mutual.

But that urge is quickly replaced with an almost horrifying realization.

"I—I don't think it worked, Lassie."

Carlton's face falls. "What do you mean?"

"If it was really supposed to cure me, wouldn't I have gone back to normal by now? I mean—I still have all my strength, my metabolism, my... irritability. Hell, I'm craving raw meat right now."

"That doesn't necessarily mean it didn't work," Carlton says, somehow willing to remain optimistic. Shawn's still rubbing off on him. "Maybe it just takes some time to wear off. That much adrenaline in your system... realistically, it's not going to disappear all at once."

"Well, it's a curse, Lass. I think we have to lower the bar for what can be considered 'realistic.'"

Carlton just sighs. Because he's right.

"There's only one way to find out, then."

 

* * *

 

 

Honestly, Shawn doesn't know why he's surprised that Lassiter has a doomsday cabin. The actual surprising thing is that he never mentioned it before.

"It's not a  _doomsday_ cabin," he insists. "It's just a small piece of property I bought some years ago, and which I regularly stock with non-perishable food and weapons in the case of an emergency."

Shawn snorts. "Name an emergency  _other_  than the apocalypse that you could possibly need a cabin out in the middle of nowhere for."

Carlton then has an inexplicable urge to slam his foot on the brakes and turn to him dramatically, but he's a sensible adult. So instead he just side-eyes him from the driver's seat.

"This?"

...He's got him there.

And Shawn's really in no place to tease him about it, since it's quite literally a lifesaver. If anything goes wrong tonight, he'll be far away from any person he could possibly hurt—even moreso, anyone he knows and cares about.

Except Carlton, but that's why he's got a gun.

At this point they don't have to wonder, either—it's going to happen. Technically it's already happening. Carlton guesses that the insides must change first, long before it even gets dark, and that's why Shawn gets so sore as the day goes on.

He's handling it better than the first time, at least. Especially now that he knows what's happening— _and_  because Lassie scored him some Vicodin for the car ride. Which might as well be the equivalent of him holding his hand the whole way through.

They arrive around 10 P.M., which by Shawn's estimate gives them about an hour before the transformation should start. Neither of them want to take any chances with that, but a minute or so really couldn't hurt.

"You know, this is actually a pretty cozy little place," Shawn says, looking around as he walks in. He almost immediately goes over to the kitchen, which is mostly just a gas-powered stove, a sink, and cupboards full of canned soup and jerky. "How long is this all supposed to last?"

"If rationed correctly, I could survive alone here for about five years, probably. Factoring in other people, it depends."

Shawn just smirks—both at Lassiter's preparedness and how proud he clearly is of it.

And then, as he crosses to the middle of the cabin where the other man is already getting the chains out, it occurs to him to do something he hasn't done all day.

It's a bad idea and he knows it, but Shawn kisses him. Not much of a warning, either—he just reaches out to cup Carlton's jaw, turns his attention to the right of him, and presses their lips together.

There's no force to it from either end. Just a sort of reassuring firmness as Carlton kisses back, not letting go of the chains, but letting Shawn pull him in.

Even though he knows it's a bad idea, too.

He almost wants to ask why Shawn just did that, but instead he simply straightens up and says, "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

Along with the chains, they also brought a sedative. So once Shawn has his limbs tied together, as well as hooked straight to the ground (now undressed but for his underwear so his clothes don't rip), Carlton injects him with it. It's enough to knock out a normal wolf, so hopefully it'll do something.

There's nothing left to do then but wait.

Carlton sits a safe distance away, unsure whether or not he should be watching Shawn as his discomfort steadily and visibly increases, or whether he should be saying anything. Talking might distract him, but the sedative also seems to be working enough that he wouldn't hear him properly.

When it finally starts, they can both tell immediately.

"Fuck, it's wearing off," Shawn whines through gritted teeth.

All at once his metabolism seems to accelerate, and he's hyper-aware of just how hot his body is, of the sudden bursts of adrenaline pumping through him with each beat of his heart, and he can already tell—

"It's not gonna hold me, Lassie."

Carlton's mouth dries, but he forces himself to remain calm and rational.

"It will, it has to."

" _No_ _—_ " Shawn's will can't keep his muscles from straining against the steel chains, and he can already feel a give. It can't be long before his strength outmatches them altogether. "Lassie, you have to do it."

Even his voice is already deeper, raspier—more of a growl than anything. But Carlton doesn't move.

"No, we don't have to do that," he says as evenly as he can, without taking his eyes off of him. "That's the reason we came out here in the first place—so we  _wouldn't_  have to!"

It's not that, though. It's the  _pain_ , and the fact that it's taking all of his mental strength to keep from losing himself right this second. It's the hatred for himself and what he's becoming—it's knowing, as he returns Lassiter's gaze, that he's too close to seeing him as prey. And he can't bear it.

He uses the last moments of his humanity to plead.

"Shoot me, Lassie. What are you waiting for, just  _kill_ me!  _Fucking shoot me right NOW, Lassie!_ "

Carlton does pick up his gun then, but his finger can't seem to grab a hold of the trigger as easily as it usually does.

Maybe it was a mistake for Shawn to trust him to do this.

Maybe this would be easier if it really was all about public safety and not about  _him_ _—_ if Carlton truly never liked him in the first place, if they didn't spend so much unnecessary time together, if he had never stopped just being  _Spencer_  in his mind.

He knows already that he eyes looking back at him are no longer Shawn's, that they're the eyes of a beast that wants to kill him. The man is trapped inside, screaming to be put out of his misery.

It's not until Carlton hears the chains snap that he finds himself ready to shoot, but by then it's too late. Shawn is on him before he knows it, the pistol firing into the wall before it falls from his grip, and he barely even has time to fear for his life before the back of his skull hits the concrete floor.

Then his world is black.

o0O0o

The first thought to reach Carlton as he comes to hardly a minute later is that he can't believe he's even alive.

But then he hears not-too-distant screams, which makes him immediately sit up and see that the door is open, broken off of its hinges. At which it makes more sense to him.

The screams die off before he's able to stand up, and the howl that follows sends chills right down his spine.

He should be thanking his lucky stars right now—he should be shoving something heavy in front of the door and using this cabin the way he originally intended it, and he should be prepared to sleep with one eye open, gun in hand until morning.

That's what his brain is telling him to do. But some crazy impulse has him, and the moment he's able, Carlton simply grabs his gun off the floor and runs out into the dark.

o0O0o

When Carlton was about seven, his father tried to make up for two accounts of abandonment by taking him on a trip up north, to the mountains. He'd wanted to see snow so badly, and he never found out how his father was able to afford it, but he made that happen.

Somehow the man still managed to abandon him then, and a few minutes of being left alone turned into hours of being lost.

It was the worst sort of fear that Carlton ever felt in his life—but it was more than that. It was pure isolation, nothing but vast white emptiness and mere trees to border it. It was knowing that the cold would kill him, and that he would go numb first. And that he'd be completely alone when it happened.

But more than anything it was how strange it felt to have already accepted it, as though he was in death's clutches all along.

Around the time they found him, Carlton had only just discovered that cold could burn. He hasn't gone near snow since.

Now, as he steps further out into the empty field and allows the dark to surround him, he feels like he did back then. Small, alone, powerless... cold. And yet, without much of a notion that he's facing the unknown.

Though his gun feels surreally cold in his hand—he doesn't even know what he intends to do with it. What the hell is he even doing out here?

_...Trying to finish what I started._

With that thought, and a deep breath, he yells into the moonlit valley:

" _SHAWN!_ "

Part of him feels slightly more in control for summoning the bravery to call him out, though a bigger part feels like he just did a very dangerous thing.

The wolf won't listen. It isn't  _him_ _—_ it'll rip Carlton apart if he can't defend himself. It could strike from anywhere and he could be dead any second. He could be dead before his shout stops echoing.

Knowing that, somehow, is what keeps him steady. Perhaps he really has been in death's clutches all along.

Carlton continues, feeling smaller and smaller the further away he gets from the cabin, from the car, and out into the valley—closer to the trees in the distance, where the moonlight won't even touch. His heart pounds with more force with every step he takes, almost as though to draw Shawn out on its own. Like it's truly prepared for it, even though that might mean getting torn out and swallowed.

Finally, he sees it: glowing, red eyes shining out through the trees. Just as they were described to him a month ago.

And every part of him, including his heart, stops.

In that moment Carlton doesn't even know whether he's prepared to shoot him, but that doesn't stop him from calling him out again.

"Shawn."

His voice sounds unnatural, now, when the rest of the world is so quiet. He's not meant to be here.

And yet he is.

And, much slower than Carlton expected, Shawn emerges from the solid dark of the forest to where he can see. For the first time, he sees the beast, and it's so fucking hard to believe that  _that_  is him.

It's  _barely_  a wolf. From a distance it could be, sure, but if he were to see it without knowing what it was, he'd be more likely to guess a wild, possibly rabies-infested dog.

Now's the perfect chance—to put a bullet in him and end this, to do what Shawn wanted. What Carlton  _promised_  to do.

But he doesn't. Not because he can't bring himself to, but... because the wolf is just standing there, making no move to attack, not even baring its teeth. Just. Watching him.

 _It's fucking insane,_  he thinks. But then, the entire past month has been insane.

So he lowers his gun.

The wolf almost immediately starts forward, and he lets it—he puts aside his fear and he stares death in the face, not moving a single muscle as it steps closer and closer.

By the time it stops in front of him, though, the eyes looking back at him have become hauntingly familiar.

"...Shawn?"

He nearly whispers it, this time.

There's no fear left for him to put aside. And rightfully so, because as crazy as it is, the wolf is disappearing right before his eyes. It could have been a trick of the light at first, but then he's sure—its fur is falling off, and, even to the wolf's own confusion, its face seems to be flattening out.

Much more quickly and smoothly than should be possible, he's reverting back into a man.

The first words that come out when his mouth is capable of forming them again are a gasping, almost choked "Holy  _shit_."

And then there's a hand gripping onto Carlton's pants—a hairless, clawless hand—at which he snaps out of shock and drops his gun entirely, then reaches down frantically to help him up. The next thing he knows... Shawn's face is staring back at him, beaming. And completely human.

"Lassie..."

" _How_?" he breathes. Part of him already knows the answer, though.

"You cured me," he breathes back, in absolute awe of the fact. And then he throws his arms around Carlton's shoulders and laughs directly into his neck, in victory more than relief.

Meanwhile Carlton himself simply closes his eyes and holds Shawn tight without regard to the fact that he's naked, breathing against him and soaking in the moment. It feels like his entire body is thankful for this—the fact that it's  _over_ , and that they've both come out of it alive.

On top of it all, even aside from the implications, neither of them can believe that that of all things actually fucking  _worked_.

"Lassie?" he eventually mutters against him.

"Yeah?"

Shawn laughs again. "I'm fucking  _freezing_."

o0O0o

It could be a simple matter of putting his clothes back on, along with the extra pair of boxers he brought, and then heading right back to Santa Barbara.

But they don't do that. The original plan was to stay overnight after all, so why not?

"I have to admit, it's always been one of my tamer fantasies to cuddle with you in front of a fireplace."

Carlton raises a skeptical eyebrow, despite the fact that Shawn's in no position to see it.

"Really?"

"Mhm. Never imagined we'd be in the middle of nowhere, though."

He has no  _real_  reason to believe that Shawn might be lying or even just kidding—it's his own insecurities projecting, Carlton supposes. Because  _he's_  never imagined that this could ever happen, that they'd be underneath a blanket on this floor or any, facing a fireplace with Shawn leaning into him. He's just never had that much hope.

He never imagined that Shawn could be quiet for so long, exhausted or otherwise. Even more so, he never imagined that he could genuinely enjoy just listening to him babble on (about what foods he's excited to be able to eat again, mostly).

In four whole years, the very  _last_  thing Carlton could have imagined is that he would neglect to acknowledge a verbal confession about Shawn's lack of psychic abilities for so long— but here he is, unable to care very much anymore.

Now that this is all over, he's sure he'll say something soon, but there's no reason to rush it. It's not like he hasn't already known.

That's the thing, too—he hasn't imagined at all in the past month, save the last 24 hours, that there would even  _be_  anything after this. It seemed much more likely that after they fixed it, things would just go back to normal.

And it hasn't been until now, in this very moment, that Carlton would allow himself to imagine that  _this_  will become the new normal.

After a second he shifts, pulling Shawn closer until he can feel him grin against his chest, and until his own lips can press against his hair.

"Mm... what's that for?" Shawn mumbles into him, just barely audible.

"...I guess you could say it's one of my tamer fantasies."

 

 

**End.**

**Author's Note:**

> Listen to the soundtrack [on 8tracks](http://8tracks.com/captainlucifer/fst-an-american-werewolf-in-santa-barbara) / [on youtube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLpO1ETfG6QGa1CfmUfSwek49bk9EzmiKB)
> 
> -  
> EDIT: I realized over a year AFTER posting that I completely forgot Shawn was canonically dating Abigail during this time, and that's why there are no mentions of her. But as a fic with supernatural themes in a universe that never canonically has them, the events of this basically exist in a vaccuum anyway.


End file.
